


The Watchful Tiger

by tiger_moran



Series: Your Protector [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to A Study in Red and Black. After rescuing his professor, Moran watches over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watchful Tiger

    For the first few moments after he awakens opening his eyes seems too much of an effort to concern himself with. For those first few moments then he sees redness, as of bright light filtered through his closed eyelids.

   When at last he does open them he sees a black figure silhouetted against the sunlight streaming in through the window – a man lean, wiry and wonderfully familiar.

    “Professor.” Moran is at his bedside at once.

    Moriarty tries to speak but his throat feels as if it is aflame when he does.

    “Shh, sir, it’s best if you don’t try to talk much for a while, your throat is badly bruised.”

    Never one to take orders from Moran however, Moriarty says huskily, “I’m home?”

    “Yes sir.”

     He looks up at Moran then, the colonel’s form no longer in silhouette. There are dark shadows under Moran’s eyes, suggesting that he has not slept properly in several days.

    “How long…?” Moriarty begins to ask, although finishing the question proves too much effort for him.

    “You’ve been asleep off and on for two days, sir,” Moran answers, anticipating the rest of the question anyway.

    “Hmm,” says Moriarty. He looks down at his hands, both of which are bruised. Several of his fingers are strapped together. The pressure around his head would also indicate that this is bandaged and, he notes with a grimace, breathing hurts – not just the rasp of the air in his bruised throat but a second sharper pain in his chest with each breath.

    “The doctor says you must rest, Professor.” Moran stands stiffly enough, attentively, and yet… something about his posture indicates how desperately he wants to touch Moriarty, to reassure himself once more that he is alive and safe. “They cracked two of your ribs, sir; broke three fingers, and there are numerous cuts and bruises. The worst of it was the blow to the back of your head. Dr. Morris says you were lucky not to have suffered a fractured skull.”

   “Pah,” says Moriarty. As if luck had anything to do with it. He put up a decent fight, he is sure of it. It was only sheer numbers that overwhelmed him in the end. “Hawking?” he whispers, seeking confirmation of what he half-recalls through his confusion of pain and the morphia he has most certainly been given.

    “Dead, sir.” Moran drops his gaze. “All dead, I had to kill ‘em to get to you.”

    Moriarty regards him, Moran’s gaze still fixed upon the floor. His demeanour suggests a guilty conscience, but not at taking their lives; for taking their lives _quickly_. He believes, and he knows that Moriarty feels the same, that they should have suffered far more.

    Moriarty licks his lips, finding them dry and chapped, before speaking again. “You did what needed to be done.”  It is as much praise as he can give. Perhaps it is far less than Moran deserves but still the colonel half lifts his head and looks at him once more, accepting Moriarty’s words both for what they are and what more they represent.

    “I searched Hawking’s corpse after,” he says, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He produces an object that Moriarty is glad indeed to see - his little red notebook. “Found this on ‘im. I’ve kept it safe for you, sir.”

   “Thank you,” Moriarty says, and sees how Moran swallows thickly, as if suddenly he is almost choking on some surge of emotion. “Moran… Sebastian,” he says, “I…”

    Moran saves him from having to say any more, to have to come up with words that are far too unfamiliar to him to be easily spoken even now, when injury and the effects of the drugs make him incautious. “You shouldn’t keep talking, Professor, you need to rest.” He carefully puts the notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll look after this for you until you feel better, sir.” He is about to take a step back when something, some emotional impulse, seizes him and he puts a hand to Moriarty’s face.

    Moriarty even at the best of times possesses an aversion to being touched without permission, yet still he does not flinch. Moran’s hands are rough, his fingers slightly calloused from handling guns and engaging in various other tasks, but his touch is so gentle.  With equal tenderness Moriarty turns his head slightly and presses a light kiss to Moran’s palm. “My loyal tiger,” he says huskily, “what would I do without you?”

    Moran knows he is not meant to answer this and so he holds his tongue, determined not to add insult to injury and inform Moriarty that he’d be dead by now without Moran; that the professor, for all his cleverness, sometimes needs the colonel to keep him safe. After all, Moriarty has never voiced his belief that without him Moran would be dead, a statement which contains equal truth.

    "The maid’ll be along in a bit with some tea,” Moran says instead. “In the mean time, get some rest, sir, please.”

    “You might take your own advice.” Moriarty again regards the shadows under Moran’s eyes.

    “I’m all right.”

    Moriarty glances across at the armchair by the window, pulled out of its usual place in the corner, and then back at Moran. The question is asked silently with no more than a faint arch of his eyebrow – _You slept in that chair?_ – and answered, also in silence, by Moran looking away. The professor notes the defensive tightening of Moran’s jaw even as he avoids Moriarty’s gaze – he thinks himself in the right for doing this, for remaining by his lover’s side, sacrificing his own comfort, his own sleep, to watch over him, but he cannot help but feel faintly ashamed at his actions being discovered. Perhaps he is expecting Moriarty to condemn him for behaving like a mother fretting over an ailing child.

    He certainly does not expect Moriarty to pat the bed beside him with as much strength as he can muster and say, “Lie down with me, Moran.”

    Moran stares at him. “Sir?”

    “Lie down with me; rest for a few minutes.”

    Moran hesitates, rubbing absently at the back of his neck as he does so, evidently torn between his desire to obey and his fear of hurting the professor. The professor’s bed – _their_ bed – is large enough to accommodate them both comfortably ordinarily but he does not want to crowd the professor in his present injured state.

    “Come,” Moriarty says. Perhaps there is more to his request than a simple desire for company and to see Moran rested – perhaps too it is vital that he acquires his lover’s obedience on the matter, to prove to them both that despite his injuries he remains in control.

    Bearing this thought in mind, Moran submits. He sits upon the armchair to unlace and remove his boots, setting them together neatly beneath it, before he stands and pads back towards the bed. Tentatively, so as not to jostle Moriarty, he settles himself down beside the professor.

    Moriarty only smiles at him weakly now, apparently having exhausted his reserves of energy already. Moran gives him a fleeting smile back, watching as some of the slightly pained look leaches out of Moriarty’s expression as he relaxes into sleep. He recalls, not without a pang of pain, how before he had watched over the professor, fearing that he might never open his eyes again. Now much of this fear has passed. Doctors are not infallible and Moran trusts them even less than most, but he believes Dr. Morris is right in this case: Moriarty is past the worst and he is mending now; he must simply rest now in order to heal. Thus Moran is content to finally let his guard down a degree.

    Moriarty sleeps, and beside him the eyes of his watchful tiger finally also slip closed. 


End file.
